Wallflower
by Fuu43
Summary: One shot. Pre-series. Sam attends his first school dance.


Hello everyone. This is my first venture into the Supernatural verse. Please review!

Wallflower

Rated T

Standard Disclaimer- I do not own Supernatural

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His dress shirt was itchy. He hadn't noticed it at first, but the urge to scratch had grown every moment since he'd buttoned it up several hours ago. Standing against the far wall of the gym, he pulled at the sleeves and wished that he'd worn something else. Anything else.

Of course, he had searched through his closet for anything that might work, but he'd known without looking that it was hopeless. The closet wasn't even half full of clothes he'd inherited from his brother or picked up at a second-hand store. Most hung on his lanky frame, and after his last growth spurt all of his jeans were several inches too short.

He'd hoped that he'd be busy enough that the itching wouldn't matter, that he'd be able to put it out of his mind like he did with a scratch or bruise while out on a hunt. It did itch though, he could feel the slow hot ache on his arms and resisted the urge to scratch his skin red.

Sam loitered against the far wall, wishing that the night was finally over and that he could go home. Keeping his eyes on the red brick of another wall, he fought to keep his frustration off his face. There was homework he could have done, crappy television that he had missed out on, a rare night of an actual homemade meal that he had given up for this. Sure dinner had probably not been homemade at all, but rarely were all the Winchesters around to enjoy a meal together.

And why? Because pretty Claire had asked him last week if he were going, giggling between two friends of hers that he hadn't known. Sitting behind her in math class, he'd noticed his first day of school how dark and pretty her hair was, how large and green her eyes were. She'd stood there and asked him, twisting one long strand of hair between her fingers, and he had never wanted to be anywhere more.

They hadn't been living there for more than a month and Claire was one of the few people who interacted willingly with him. He'd noticed that girls rarely spoke to him, seeming to see his skinny gangly frame and automatically declare 'geek'. But Claire was on the volleyball team, she had tons of friends, and had even asked him to come in early once to go over some math problems. He wasn't great at the friendship thing, wasn't even comfortable thinking the word 'girlfriend', but had cautiously decided that things were looking up.

He'd had to beg his dad to let him go, bribe his brother to drive him there and back. It had taken him two days to convince both, promising all sorts of things that he'd rather eat barbed wire than do. His brother had agreed more readily than their dad, but Sam was still out twenty bucks and on three weeks of weapons duty.

And at the time, it had seemed worth it. More than worth it. He'd get to dance with Claire, talk with her friends, really click at a new school that he wasn't fitting into at all. His grades were fine, teachers seemed to like him, but he'd caught more than one fellow student staring at his threadbare jeans and worn backpack. It had been awhile since he'd gone to school in a place so upscale, and he could feel the constant looks of pity and disgust.

Which is why he'd used the money he'd been saving for a calculator on a new shirt and jeans. Well, new to him. They weren't as fancy as what most of the other teens were wearing, but he couldn't tell the difference between them. Other than the itchiness of the shirt. In fact, Dean had complained that he looked like some sort of 'civilian' and a 'pretty boy' too. Taking extra care with his hair, Sam had been certain that the other kids wouldn't have any reason to see him as anything less than another student. He just had to think positive.

Slouching on the wall, Sam bent slightly forward and glanced around the gymnasium. Most of the lights were off, and a disco ball spun high above as a slow song played out over the speakers. Most of the other kids were dancing or stood near the front of the gym talking in small groups. Claire was on the dance floor, arms wrapped around a kid in a name brand pink polo and matching khakis. His shoes were squeaky white, and in the dark room they glowed neon.

She hadn't asked him to dance, hadn't approached him at all, and he was certain at first that she hadn't known he'd arrived. It had taken awhile for him to buck up the courage, but eventually he'd approached her and a gaggle of friends and asked her to dance. She'd looked gorgeous, wearing a purple fluttery dress that had made his palms sweat and his voice stutter.

Her friends had laughed and talked to each other behind their hands as she'd turned to address him. Sam had never understood girls. Claire's lips were shiny and her eyes had been outlined in a think line of black. He'd watched her look at him, take in his carefully styled hair and new shirt, and then tell him that she was seeing Brian.

Brian, the kid who had called him a 'shit-bag' only two days ago when they'd passed each other in the hall, who played baseball and soccer and seemed to think the school was his own personal playground.

His mouth had opened, about to tell her that it was no big, that they could just hang out, that Brian seemed like a nice guy (though not really), but one of the other girls had spoken loudly over the crowd and him,

"God, what a charity case. I can't believe Claire invited him."

Claire hadn't come to his defense, hadn't glanced at him again all evening. He'd slunk away, finding a far wall to stand against as the dance continued around him. Even now he could still feel the burn on his cheeks, could taste the shame on the back of his tongue. His long legs hurt from standing so still all night, and Sam had spent the majority of his evening watching his peers laugh and gossip. He had thought about approaching one or two of the other groups standing around and talking, but couldn't make himself. There was only so much a kid could take, and he wasn't sure what he'd do if another person dismissed him like a bug that wasn't even worth stepping on.

The dance was officially over at ten, and when he'd told Dean that he was going, he'd given very specific directions. His brother couldn't be any earlier than ten, any later than ten fifteen. When he'd made the rules, he'd been certain that he'd be so busy fitting in, so busy having such a good time with the other kids, that the idea of going back home would be objectionable.

Now he wished that Dean had fought with him a little harder, that their dad had tsked and ordered him to do a long list of boring chores. That he was at home researching a hunt or cleaning the weapons or vomiting his guts out. Anything.

A couple of kids meandered his way, their eyes flickering to him briefly before they continued out the gym doors. Sam studied the dance floor, ignoring them and pretending he wanted nothing more than to stand there and watch everyone else have a good time.

Sam shut his eyes and felt a wave of self loathing rush over him.

He hated that he'd even tried. Dean was constantly asking him why it mattered if some snotty kids liked him, why Sam tried to fit in when they'd be moving again in a few months, and at the moment Sam didn't know. All his careful planning had been a total waste. The kids here didn't know him, didn't want to get to know him, didn't care if he fell off the side of the earth or was eaten by a zombie. He didn't look right, didn't act right, didn't do 'normal' right.

Scuffing his shoe on the dirty floor, he glanced at the clock on the far wall. It was nine thirty. There would probably be a few more upbeat dances, and then a couple of slow songs to finish up the evening. He hadn't been to a school dance before, but had done a little bit of research in preparation. He'd wanted to fit in, wanted the dance to feel familiar so that he wouldn't have to ask a stupid question or make a dumb move. Now, he wondered why he'd wasted his time.

The lights would come on and everyone would see him, standing alone like some sort of freak. Could he wait outside the last half hour? Would Dean show up and wonder why he wasn't inside having a good time like he'd said he'd be? Like he'd insisted he'd be?

It didn't even matter anymore. He needed to get out. The air was hot, stuffy, and he could smell the strong stench of body odor underneath the multiple perfumes and colognes that everyone had put on for the special night. He was sure that Claire's friends were still laughing at him, the poor kid that thought he had a chance with one of them. He rubbed at his chest and fought back a sudden prickling feeling behind his eyes. Picking up his feet and heading toward the exit, he hoped that the dance ended early.

He didn't know why he seemed to care so much about ordinary people liking and accepting him. His dad lived outside of society, his brother skirted the edges, and Sam seemed destined to be rejected by the society he wanted to embrace. Sam just couldn't understand what was so wrong with him. Sure, they weren't rich, but he wasn't an asshole, nor did he pick his nose, or snitch on students, or start fights. He was a nice average kid at school. How was it possible that everyone he met seemed to see the weirdness he was so careful to hide?

Outside the air was cool. It was early November, and the air was crisp enough that it pleasantly burned his lungs. Leaves still hung on some of the trees, and the grass was littered with gold, red, and brown shades. Beneath his feet, the ground gave just barely, still moist and wet from a recent rain.

The outside of the school was well lit, and though there were a few people loitering near the door, the outside was fantastically clear. The building was big and fancy and new, with large classrooms and state of the art technology. He'd loved it the first week or so, until he'd realized that no one else seemed to want him there. Walking in the direction of the parking lot, he kept his head down and strode purposefully.

Giving into the urge, Sam scratched at his arms and sighed in relief. It was too cold to roll up the sleeves, but he couldn't wait to shrug out of the shirt and toss it in the trash. All that would be better was his lumpy old mattress and his battered copy of The Three Musketeers.

The parking lot, though well lit, was mostly empty, and Sam wished briefly that he was old enough to drive. Walking toward one of the empty benches, he froze.

Shit. He could see the impala from were he stood, parked near the back of the lot, could barely hear the music that Dean undoubtedly had cranked in the car. He watched his brother tap out the beat on the steering wheel and wondered just how long he'd been sitting there. Had he known that Sam was going to fail miserably, that he would be leaving early with his tail tucked between his legs?

Sam stumbled a couple of steps and considered going back inside before Dean spotted him. His heart sped up in his chest, straining against his ribs as if it wanted to escape. He felt sick to his stomach and was glad that he'd been too nervous earlier to eat.

He had planned on just sitting out there until Dean arrived, but wasn't sure if he could handle his brother's teasing about leaving early. Dean would never have left early from any party. Sam couldn't understand it, but even though Dean could take or leave the world around him, he seemed to effortlessly fit into it. At his new school he'd already dated two or three girls, had a couple of buddies Sam knew he snuck out of class with, and seemed to be on a first name basis with most the other kids.

Sam didn't think that everyone _liked_ his brother, but they sure as hell respected him. They wouldn't have invited him somewhere and then ignored him. No one ignored his brother. Sam couldn't even make one stupid girl look at him. Feeling another pang in his chest, he shivered against the cold and made up his mind.

He could take his brother's teasing if it meant leaving. He'd put a smile on his face and lick his wounds later in the bathroom after Dean and Dad had crashed for the night.

Tucking his head down, he approached the car quickly and pulled open the passenger door. Loud music poured out of the car, with Dean turning it down marginally as Sam climbed in. Even turned down he could feel the deep vibration of the music, could feel the notes as they moved through the air.

Sam knew he hadn't surprised his brother, even while relaxing in a parking lot his brother missed nothing. Sam stared out the window, ignoring the eyes he could feel burning into the back of his head. The music was turned down even more, and Sam knew that somehow his brother could tell that something was wrong. Dean always seemed to know. He willed himself to relax, tried to force an easygoing smile to his face, but settled for keeping his gaze averted. At thirteen he still wasn't good enough to pretend.

"So," Dean's voice was gruff and not nearly as annoying as he'd thought it would be, "how was the dance?"

Sam shrugged and swallowed at the sudden lump in his throat. God, he wasn't a kid anymore and hated the feeling of misery that had taken root in him. He felt Dean's eyes again, and didn't even try to lower his hunched shoulders or unclench his hands.

The car started up and Sam kept his eyes on the streets outside. As they drove through the well lit rich neighborhood he wished that Dean would turn the music back up, that he would laugh and talk and tease him. He wished he could sink into the seat of the impala and just disappear for awhile.

He started at the sudden feeling of Dean's hand on the back of his neck. Sam darted his eyes toward his brother, but Dean was staring at the road and humming to the music under his breath. Dean's other hand was clenching the steering wheel, his knuckles a pale white in the dimly lit space.

Sam hung his head forward and relaxed under the contact, the urge to breakdown so strong he wasn't sure he could fight it.

"I'm sorry Sammy."

Dean's words were quiet, his hand warm and there and welcoming. Sam closed his eyes and felt the hot tears on his cheeks.

He never went to a school dance again.

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End file.
